The Virgin Valuation

You like that title? I went all “Big Bang Theory” on that shit. They should hire me as their title writer. I’d be awesome. Moving on…

I saw an article recently, announcing that the 2012 Purity Ball was in the works and couldn’t wait to reserve a spot for my husband and daughter! She will be wearing a beautiful ball gown and we will adorn her hair with pretty flowers and her father will dress in a tuxedo and they will go and dance together until the ceremony begins. Then my daughter will look her daddy in the eyes and pledge her virginity to him until marriage and then her father will vow to defend and protect her virginity to the death or until she is married. I know some people think it is a bit strange but, don’t worry, we are going to go to an attorney, after the verbal agreement, to get documented legal ownership of her hymen, of course.  We aren’t idiots! Since she is just a girl, she can’t be trusted with making choices for herself, now or in the future. As a father it is his job to ensure that her future husband gets first dibs on our little girl. Until then, her daddy is going to be hyper vigilant to keep her hymen intact!

Okay, seriously, am I the only one that finds the purity ball scenario beyond fucking weird? Girls, starting in preschool, being dressed up for a date with their daddies, where they will vow to remain “pure” until marriage and their daddies will assume the role of gatekeeper of his daughter’s vagina. First of all, I take issue with “pure” being a euphemism for virginity. Pure is defined as “free from contamination”, “clean”, “untainted”. A girl’s value is not inside her vagina, precariously contained only by the hymen, like a tupperware lid.

If you teach your daughter that her virginity is a “gift” for a future husband, you are inadvertently teaching your daughter to objectify herself.  I, for one, don’t want my daughter to think  that the most relevant contribution that she can make to her future husband lies between her legs. I also don’t want my daughter to think of sex as something that will render her “tainted”, “impure” or “damaged goods”. In that same vein, I don’t want my sons to objectify girls or view them as conquests. I don’t want any of my children qualifying the worth of themselves or others on the basis of a sexual history. I’m going to try the road less traveled and try to instill confidence and self worth in my children and teach them to respect themselves and their bodies. I don’t want my sons having indiscriminate sex any more than my daughter. You just don’t see me organizing a party that would culminate in my sons pledging his penis and sperm to me until he meets a girl I decide can have a run at him.

On a related note, have you seen this shirt:As a mother to three sons, I just don’t find this train of thought all that amusing. I know it is tongue in cheek but I also know that a lot of parents still do think it is funny and/or necessary to do things like hold or clean a gun when meeting their daughter’s date. The threat is clear, whether through subtle or direct means that, “if you touch my little girl, I’m coming for you.” I’ll just say, if a parent of one of my sons’ future dates were to make threats of violence or brandish a gun to imply a threat for no other reason than he was picking her up for a date, there would be a problem. If your daughter were to come to my home to go out with my son and I pulled out a gun and told her to keep her hands off of my precious little boy, what would you think?

If Anyone Asks, I’m A Good Mom

I can only imagine what TV teaches my kids, including commercials.  Who comes up with this shit? I would love to sit down with whatever marketing geniuses come up with these commercial concepts and ask them one thing:

“What the fuck?”

Every paper towel commercial, for instance: The mother characters never hesitate to hand their toddler a large cup, filled to the rim with milk or juice and then they have the audacity to look surprised when it spills. Mom shrugs and laughs as she grabs a paper towel and, with one swipe, wipes up the spill with a smile and an unaffected gaze and then the dumb bitch hands the child a refill.  Hey Lady! Buy a clue! Give that child a sippy cup or, at minimum, why don’ t you consider NOT filling it up all the way. On a side note, it is laughable how spills in commercials almost always result in one manageable and easy to clean up puddle.

The ones that really get me are the commercial moms that give their toddlers and preschoolers free rein in the kitchen. They walk in to find their child covered in flour and standing in a mine field of cracked eggs, puddles of milk and any other variety of things you would find in a pantry or refrigerator strewn about the room. The mother walks in, softly gasps as she surveys the destruction and then she smiles and laughs adoringly as she grabs a couple of paper towels or disinfectant wipes, which we are apparently supposed to believe is all she needed to clean the entire fucking mess, as well as her child.  They throw the paper towel away together and then they embrace and laugh. It’s the same scenario for every cleaning product. Have these jackasses who came up with this advertising concept ever met an actual parent? Rather, have they met one who isn’t on a laundry list of anti-psychotics? This marketing strategy would be better suited for use by pharmaceutical companies. Replay the exact same scene, except, rather than paper towels, show the mother grabbing a couple of pills. Pan the camera back to the logo, “Momnesta”. Look, if I walked into the kitchen and saw even a fraction of that destruction, I would lose my damn mind. Seriously. Heads would fucking roll. The neighbors would probably hear me gasp, then the rant would begin, peppered with statements like “this is why we can’t have nice things” and “I’m just a glorified maid” and “why do I bother cleaning up”. If the magic box showed me an advertisement for happy pills that would make my childrens’ path of destruction tolerable, much less adorable, I would buy the fuck out of those pills.  I would be the first in line. In the meantime, I will have to suck it up and continue responsible monitoring and supervision of my children until that day comes —but if I got my hands on that pill, I would stock up on paper towels and take a damn nap!

Who remembers the old commercial where the mother and daughter are walking on a beach and the daughter asks the mother, “Mom, do you ever feel–not so fresh”? The mother assures her that it is a problem all women are faced with and, in a nutshell, tells her that douching is the solution.  Look, if your daughter comes to you and expresses concern that her vag is getting funky, she doesn’t need to douche, she needs to take a fucking shower.  Give her that advice, mmmkay. A little more insight: “feminine wash” is a gimmick. It is the regular ol’ soap with a jacked up price tag because these companies have convinced women that we need to disinfect our squish mitten with magic vagina soap or suffer total humiliation. Good rules of thumb:

1) If your child is out of sight and is being quiet, something is getting fucked up.

2) If your south pole starts to smell, BATHE!

As If I’d Pay Him

Why do so many people think that the paternal obligation and responsibility in parenting begins and ends with ejaculation? I am home day in and day out, managing the lives of four children. If you ask anyone, I am “just a stay at home mom”. As far as most are concerned, I have nothing but time since I don’t work or anything. Sure, I have four kids but I just sit at home with my thumb up my ass all day, every day. If, however, I venture outside of these four walls and leave my children at home with my husband, you know–their father–the whole world says he is—-wait for it—- babysitting.

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“Oh! Is your husband babysitting”?

“You’re so lucky. My husband never babysits”.

“That is so awesome that their daddy is babysitting them so you can get out”.

What the fuck is that shit? Look, a babysitter doesn’t contribute sperm to his charges. If my husband is home with the kids, he isn’t babysitting, he is PARENTING. When I cook dinner, no one says, “oh, I didn’t know you became a chef”. You think when I drive my litter around, anyone says, “when did you become a chauffeur”? I can promise you, no one has ever congratulated my husband on getting me to BABYSIT our kids. When I stay home with the kids, I am just doing my “job” as a mother. When he stays home with the kids, people want to nominate him for sainthood and seem to think I’m supposed to run home and pay him in blowjobs. .

Husband, of course, finds it hysterical when someone refers to him “babysitting”. Mostly because he knows it makes me want to punch puppies. Fortunately, he doesn’t expect special treatment for just being a great dad.  Of course, if he rinses off a plate, he seems to think I am supposed to strap on my knee pads as I arrange a goddamned ticker tape parade but that is a different blog.

My Calgon is Broken

I have taken dozens of bubble baths over the last couple of weeks and when I open my eyes I am still sitting in my tub in my fucking bathroom. Want to know what else is in that bathroom when I open my eyes? A bunch of little people, staring me down, with questions or demands.

“What are you doing?”

“Can I take a bath?”

“Can I play on the computer?”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Will I have a big butt like you one day?”

“Your wine shakes all over when you cry.”

I can barely remember what it feels like to go to the bathroom without a captive audience.

My children can be completely occupied but they will drop everything and magically appear the moment I walk into the bathroom. They can be in a different room! With the door closed! They will appear out of thin air to demand snacks or kick my self esteem down a couple more pegs. I had figured out when Number One was a newborn that the sound of me relaxing caused children to go batshit crazy. It didn’t take me much longer to discover that children also have a psychic link to a mother’s bladder that compels them to her side anytime it is being emptied.

Number Four is adorable–light of my life and all that jazz. He has, so far, been the easiest baby of all four. It is amazing what he can sleep through, too. Number Three can raise hell, all four dogs can be barking at the suspicious presence of oxygen in the room, the television blaring, the vacuum running—none of it disturbs his slumber. Things that will wake my little angel from a deep sleep: my hand turning the bathroom doorknob, me lifting food to my mouth and the sound of me gently laying my head on a pillow. I shit you not. He will, however permit me to lay down and get some rest, so long as he is allowed to sleep at the breastaurant.. I have agreed to his terms.As much as I love Husband, I have fantasized about the part time privacy I would acquire through divorce. Ahhhh, a girl can dream.